Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Rain of the Temple (Part Two)

“…If you come to our side, you’ll immediately be the chief steward of the Su residence, with access to all the resources of the third branch of the Su family. Whatever demands you have, as long as we can meet them, we’ll agree to them. If you manage these resources well, remember—second sister is after all just a woman. If she takes over the main branch and fails, there are ways for you to gain her… My father says you’re a clever man, everyone knows you’re clever. We have sincerity, there’s no need for unnecessary words. Just think it over…”

Amidst the storm of wind and snow, Su Wenji’s voice rang out, words he’d long prepared to say. Among the chief stewards of the Su family’s main branch, Xi Junyu stood out for his sharp mind and capability, always the brightest among them. Though his seniority did not yet rival the elders, few doubted he could one day uphold half the Su family’s fortunes. Many said Xi Junyu was born to be a scholar, destined for top honors; even when the Wu family offered a fortune to lure him, he refused. His reason for staying with the Su family was, in truth, solely for Second Miss Su Tan’er.

For this reason, since Su Tan’er’s marriage, Su Yunfang and Su Wenji had constantly sought to draw closer, offering goodwill. Su Wenji, aware of his own limitations, prided himself on his ability to appreciate talent, treating capable people with great respect. His principle was simple: “I may lack ability, but if I entrust matters to those who are capable, that is enough.” Such an attitude had earned him much praise outside.

But as Xi Junyu finished listening, he looked at Su Wenji for a moment, then, after a pause, firmly slapped his shoulder. Amid Su Wenji’s confusion, Xi Junyu shook his head and laughed coldly. “Seventh Young Master, don’t be so naive…”

“This is your best chance… You know what I say is true.”

Unable to fathom Xi Junyu’s thoughts, Su Wenji grew bewildered at his attitude. The slap was heavy; he could only repeat his words. After a while, Xi Junyu sighed.

“Heh, Seventh Young Master, honoring talent and employing people freely is good. I know this is what Third Master taught you—if you can’t manage, don’t meddle. It’s a clever approach, but you don’t understand: to truly use people well, you must be able to command them. If one day two subordinates disagree, and you lack the authority or decisiveness to resolve it, how can you use people?”

Looking at the man before him, Xi Junyu found it amusing. Su Wenji pondered for a long time. “At least… wouldn’t that be good news for you?”

Xi Junyu shook his head. “I, Xi Junyu, won’t stand with those destined to fail.”

With those words, he turned and left. As his figure strode away, Su Wenji hesitated for a long while before realization dawned. “You’re angry! You’re angry!”

“That’s some progress,” Xi Junyu replied coolly, waving his hand without turning back. Snowflakes burst in the air as if suddenly detonated. “Wake up, Seventh Young Master. You can’t win against Su Tan’er. She never took you seriously from the start!”

The wind and snow swirled. Su Wenji stared dumbfounded at the black-robed figure departing in great strides. After a moment, he frowned fiercely, suppressing his anger. Though he thought that after so many encounters, this was the first time Xi Junyu lost his composure—perhaps a turning point—the annoyance from Xi Junyu’s words couldn’t be shaken off. He punched the tree trunk beside him.

He was not strong; usually such a punch would only hurt. Prepared for pain, he clenched his teeth, his hand shaking in the air. Suddenly, his neck was icy cold and his shoulders were covered in snow. He looked up angrily, his expression turning to surprise, mouth agape as terror surfaced…

From afar, the figure beneath the tree punched its trunk, which swayed a few times and then—boom, crash—

White and green colors engulfed the figure below; two hands and a foot flailed desperately amid the snowdrift.

Moments later, a maid’s cry rang out: “Help—help—the Seventh Young Master is buried in the snow—”

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“…Listening to youth, laughter arrives, envied by many,

That history, so gentle, refuses, its pen too harsh.

Fireworks fade, people part,

And you ask, am I still sincere…

A thousand years later, love persisting through lifetimes, who still waits,

And in the chronicles, can truth be denied, Wei’s book, Luoyang city.”

As you follow, past lives at the door,

Stained by worldly dust, follow me, wandering a lifetime…”

The strings of the zither sounded softly, flowing like water. The woman’s voice was gentle, her singing imbued with exploration, contemplation, and doubt. She blended single-note techniques from her usual singing with the turns and changes Ning Yi had just taught her. The melody was not high, soft and lingering like fine wine.

The man, amidst this singing, carefully peeled the shell from the duck egg. The amber color gradually emerged from the shell, appearing for the first time in this era reminiscent of the Song dynasty. The preserved egg was placed in a porcelain bowl, its amber whites marbled. Ning Yi listened to Nie Yunzhu’s rendition of the altered “Rain at the Temple,” and felt a faint ancient charm.

Even in this era, much of life was simple and dull. Walking by the Qinhuai River, the boats and buildings were not as beautiful as those shown on television, and the streets were dirty and chaotic. That sense of ancient charm was a state of mind—like looking at the lanterns in the Su family courtyard at night, like teaching Xiaochan to sing “When Will the Moon Be Bright,” like the peace inside and outside the small building during a downpour. It reminded him of years to come, and only then did the ancient charm emerge from his heart. He was, after all, a modern man; such moods carried the flavor of time, like poetry and wine.

Listening quietly until the song ended, Nie Yunzhu seemed to have words she wished to say. She had never heard such a folk tune; even among those worthy of the grand halls, none employed such strange methods. For a millennium, music followed the path of monophony; even a thousand years later, every regional opera focused on force and charm. In terms of changes, it was far less complex than modern music, which blends various styles. This song, for all its simplicity and superficiality, was in pursuit of technical complexity to the extreme, almost heretical. But for her, it was deeply shocking and inspiring.

On the other hand, the lyrics were rather plain, even patchwork at times… She looked at Ning Yi. Perhaps it was casual, as if he simply said a few words, inadvertently seeking interesting ways to write lyrics, finally cobbling together a song. Yet even so, it was astonishing. The scattered, plain lines actually held a vague sense of meaning, like a game played with reckless abandon. Nie Yunzhu had never imagined she’d be unsettled by a song like this.

“Sir, was this singing technique improvised?” Though unbelievable, it must be so. If he were truly versed in music, he wouldn’t have made a folk song like this.

“Did you like it?”

“Weird, but interesting.” Nie Yunzhu chose her words carefully, then smiled. “It’s just… perhaps only suitable for leisure, or for casual singing among a few friends, uh…”

She hesitated to say more. Ning Yi laughed. “It won’t enter the grand halls, haha.” He paused. “But it’s just something I enjoy, listening for fun.”

Ning Yi was always casual and easy-going; Nie Yunzhu had grown used to it. Seeing his attitude, her confusion faded. It was just an odd song; if it could be sung, it was simply for pleasure. She had long studied music and had rules she defended, but now she felt nothing strange about the matter. It seemed right that he should be this way.

“Actually, it’s pleasant.” She nodded, smiling. “But… I’ve never heard such lyrics and melody. If I were to use a new score, I’d need a few days to study…”

Ning Yi smiled and nodded. “Of course, I’m not in a hurry. Just hearing it once is enough for me—it sounded wonderful.”

“You flatter me, sir. There were places where my singing couldn’t fully express it…” Nie Yunzhu said, then looked at the duck egg in the bowl. “Why did this salted duck egg turn out like this?”

“This is called ‘preserved egg.’ You could name it jade egg, agate egg, fortune egg, anything… Try this jar, I’ll take one myself. In the future, sell them at a high price; there should be business. In all the world, only this one store…”

Ning Yi laughed, introducing the preserved egg. He’d asked Nie Yunzhu to pickle two jars, fifty eggs in total, and planned to take just one. He only wanted to eat them; it didn’t matter who sold them. Nie Yunzhu understood music, and he’d need her to compose in the future—this was an investment.

She politely refused, but eventually accepted. After some more chatting, Nie Yunzhu fetched a few straw ropes from the kitchen to tie up the jar. Ning Yi took the earthen jar and said his goodbyes. Nie Yunzhu saw him to the door, then returned to her room.

“Rain falls, the old hometown is thick with grass and trees…”

She softly hummed the tune, going to the table and looking at the lyrics on the paper. Picking up the preserved egg, she bit gently, chewing slowly as she continued to hum the song.

She had never heard such strange lyrics and melody, never tasted duck eggs like these. These things flooded her heart. With Ning Yi present, her mind was calm; now, for some reason, it was in turmoil.

“The mottled city gate, entrenched old tree roots, echoing on stone slabs is the waiting…”

“Rain falls, the old hometown is thick with grass and trees…”

“Cowherd’s flute at the city outskirts, falls on that wild village, fate takes root…”

“I heard you’ve always been alone…”

“Stained by worldly dust, follow me, wandering a lifetime…”

Her gentle voice only softly hummed, but her mind was full of thoughts—reminiscing about pushing the cart together earlier. She set down the preserved egg, went to the door and gently opened it. Wind and snow swept in; she stood there, gazing into the distance. That figure in blue robes, holding an oil-paper umbrella, was walking away in the storm, now just a vague outline.

“Stained by worldly dust…”

Her heart pounded, feeling as if she stood at the threshold of the mortal world. Her chest rose and fell, thoughts surging like a tide. At times, the song’s imagery was hard to express; at others, there was something else, knocking hard at her heart. Then she felt she was overthinking.

“Sir Ning is a gentleman, surely these are just casually written lyrics… Nie Yunzhu…”

“Nie Yunzhu, Nie Yunzhu, Nie Yunzhu…”

The distant figure had vanished into the snowy storm. She closed the door, pressed her lips together, and returned to the round table, sitting down. She really was overthinking. Resting her face on her hand, she tilted her head to look at the lyrics, softly singing a few lines, then lay down, her chin on crossed hands, gazing ahead at the bitten preserved egg not far away. A ray of light from outside shone in, casting a crystal glow on the amber color.

She lay there, gazing at the sparkling color for a long time, the dim room making her seem like a little girl…

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PS: It seems some people believe ancient folk were inherently full of classical charm, that their every movement overflowed with literary elegance, so modern songs would never be accepted and always deemed heretical. Let me clarify: in the pre-Qin era, people conversed in literary language. By the Tang dynasty, it was mostly vernacular; classical was just a written form. The vernacular then was much like ours now; “Water Margin” and other vernacular works offer some insight, but whether it’s a vernacular book or not, books tend to sound more refined than actual speech. In the Song, Yuan, Ming, and especially by the Ming, official notices required plain speech. In the Qing, Guangxu’s imperial comments to officials included phrases like “as governors, you should…” and so forth.

So don’t assume classical Chinese is vastly different from our language; modern songs in ancient times wouldn’t enter the grand halls, and you can’t claim mine are elegant, but for private amusement among two or three people, it’s not a big deal. Modern lyrics and singing differ from ancient styles; compare Peking opera, Yue opera, and you’ll see the differences. Ancient singing followed different directions. So, more complex and bizarre singing might not suit them, but privately, if it’s interesting and novel, it’s not hard to imagine. And besides… the lady already has some affection.

I don’t pursue pure ancient charm. Some say if you write ancient fiction, you must strictly follow ancient methods, maintain the original flavor, never invent things, never break the mold. I don’t care for that. My story isn’t a formulaic “ancient officialdom,” “ancient power struggle,” “ancient farming,” or “ancient martial arts” novel. I don’t pursue formula. If you want to define this work, it’s simple: a modern man returns to ancient times and experiences a series of events… If it’s possible, if it’s interesting, I won’t avoid it. If you went to the past, wouldn’t you miss TVs? Songs? MSG? He must first be a modern man. I won’t make the protagonist speak classical just for the sake of ancient charm—that’s unreasonable. My sense of ancient charm comes from other aspects. A “modern man” in “ancient times,” that’s the dramatic conflict; both modern and ancient perspectives are important.

I only pursue reasonable human nature, give him an environment, and let happen what might happen. As I said, I let songs appear based on such considerations; I’ve thought about this, and I know ancient people spoke in plain language—so that’s enough.

Of course, for those who refuse to believe, who don’t know what doggerel or folk songs are, who imagine ancient people as aliens, there’s nothing I can do.

Hmm, I believe I’ve shaped the ancient charm well so far.

This is Wu Dynasty.

Hmm, that’s it. As usual, seeking clicks, favorites, and recommendations ^_^